


where the devil's jaws are far too weak to tear you away

by Stacicity



Series: Jonah Fics [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Depression as a result of the Lonely, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Oral Sex, Rated for safety - it's not especially explicit, Trans Jonah Magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: “Barnabas, you must promise me that you will be careful.”“Jonah-”“Promise me.”It seems an absurd request. Yes, Barnabas is aware of the rumours, and it would be an unwise man who wasn’t at least a little intimidated by Mordechai, but he can’t fathom circumstances under which Mordechai would do anything to him. Not given his friendship with Jonah.****In 1824, Barnabas is taken by the Lonely. A lot of other things happen first.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Mordechai Lukas
Series: Jonah Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759540
Comments: 22
Kudos: 80
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	where the devil's jaws are far too weak to tear you away

**Author's Note:**

> Simon Fairchild is herein referred to as Emiliano and is still my favourite bastard
> 
> The entire fencing scene is dedicated to [Stevie](https://osheets.tumblr.com/) who drew Jonah and Barnabas and Mordechai fencing and promptly made my day.

September 1819

The advantage of a stay in Mordechai’s estate in Kent is the relative privacy of it. In London, every party and soiree - however private or clandestine - creates rumours that bubble through the rest of society within days. Out here, though, it’s miles from the nearest town, and Barnabas knows that the lands are patrolled by groundskeepers turning away anybody that might wander too close. It is a little oasis in which all manner of vices are made acceptable, and no eyes can follow them. 

He’s surprised, really, that Mordechai has deigned to invite so many people here - all of Smirke’s little circle. Jonah looks too pleased with himself not to have had something to do with it, and Barnabas is tempted to ask, equally unsure if he actually wants to _know_ what strings he might have pulled to arrange it. At any rate, whilst Mordechai is reluctant (and after this week, Barnabas is sure they’ll not see him return to London for a few months at least) he is a gracious enough host. The wine had flown freely the night before, and whilst Barnabas has yet to catch any glimpse of a maid or a cook, they must _be_ here somewhere, as everything is clean, and they’ve certainly been well-fed. 

He’s emerged from the house onto the front lawn to see Mordechai and Jonah standing together on dewsoaked grass, Emiliano a little way off on the terrace with Robert and Jonathan, drinking coffee and finishing their breakfast. Emiliano lifts his cup in greeting and Barnabas laughs, waves back, turns his attention back to Jonah, who is standing with both hands against the hilt of a foil, leaning his weight into his hip, the tip of the foil resting on the ground. 

“Hallo - what’s the sport today, then?” 

“Just a bit of fencing,” Jonah replies, reaches out towards Barnabas who steps closer obligingly and bends his head down to accept the kiss he receives for his troubles, a little dizzy with the liberty to kiss him like this, to know that he can draw Jonah into his arms whenever he likes and barely receive a second glance for it. 

“I’ve not fenced in _years_ ,” Barnabas murmurs and Jonah hums in acknowledgement, looks back towards Mordechai who is waiting patiently, watching the two of them, all the huge bulk of him solid and unmoving while the morning mist curls at his boots. “Ah, apologies - I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please, carry on.” 

“Much appreciated,” Mordechai says dryly, waiting for Barnabas to move out of the way before shifting his stance a little, Jonah doing the same. Barnabas backs away so he can watch them while he joins the others on the terrace, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other.

“Who’s winning?” he asks Emiliano, pouring himself some coffee, black and sweet and strong enough to clear the lingering fuzziness of sleep from his head. 

“Well, now,” Emiliano leans his chin into his palm, grinning, “funny you should ask. We were about to lay a wager to precisely that effect.” 

“Oh?”

“Emiliano is of the mind that Mordechai will beat Jonah soundly,” Jonathan murmurs, eyes on the apple in his hand which he’s peeling carefully with a pocket-knife, the skin coming away in one long, curling strip with scarcely a mite of flesh left on it, almost see-through in the pale sunlight. “I disagree.”

“What are the stakes?” 

“Money, I should think.” 

“Ah.” Barnabas nods. If not money it would be something taken out of Jonah’s hide, and it hardly seems fair to do that when he can’t be party to the conversation. Not that that sort of consideration would stop Emiliano, but it might give Jonathan some pause. “Well. I’ll place my bet on Jonah, then.”

“Excellent. Robert?” 

“I’ll bet on Mordechai,” Smirke replies.

“Then we’re evenly matched! Superb.” Emiliano beams and claps his hands together. He’s all spry motion and fidgeting hands, rarely still for long. More than once Barnabas has found himself meeting his eyes and almost getting lost in them - not out of any lovelorn feelings, though Emiliano is affable and witty and handsome enough - but because there is a pull, there, something in his eyes that is hard to look away from. Barnabas blinks and tears himself away, turns his attention back out to the combatants on the lawn.

It’s footwork, at the start, Mordechai and Jonah moving backwards and forwards, testing each other’s boundaries. In fact, it’s a few minutes before the foils even touch, and Barnabas sips his coffee, watches the delicate placement of Jonah’s feet, the way he tests his own balance, three careful steps for every one of Mordechai’s. 

It’s hardly a surprise that Jonah is the first to attack, a quick lunge that Mordechai parries, flicking Jonah’s foil to the side so he can riposte. There’s a flurry of motion, a brief interlude before they both retreat. Mordechai, for all of his size, is surprisingly fluid in his motions, and Jonah is all speed, all sharpness, deft precision and singular focus. It’s quite mesmerising. 

“Robert, would you pass me- yes, there, thank you,” Emiliano murmurs, reaching across the table to accept the sketchbook Smirke passes him, handing his pencil off to Jonathan with a smile. “Might I borrow those surgical hands of yours?” 

“Certainly,” Jonathan replies, not taking his eyes off Jonah for a second as he runs his knife over a napkin to remove any trace of apple juice and then sets to sharpening the point of Emiliano’s pencil, handing it back when he’s done so Emiliano can brush a hand over his page and set to sketching in some arcing lines, suggestions of figures, of movement. 

“They’re very good,” Barnabas remarks, and Robert laughs. 

“Oh, yes. I think Mordechai’s quite disappointed that one can’t settle duels at swordpoint anymore, you know - simpler than arguing. Do you fence, Barnabas?” 

“Not since university, I’ll be very rusty.” 

“Since university,” Emiliano scoffs, rolling his eyes. “A mere sneeze of time for a young thing like you - what’s that, a few years? A mere handful?” 

“A few,” Barnabas concedes, laughing. “But you’re hardly all that old yourself, Emiliano.” His late thirties, perhaps, his early forties. Emiliano meets his eyes - blue, blue eyes - and grins, winks at him with sudden sharpness. 

“Not in the grand scheme of things, no.” 

“Perhaps you ought to throw your hat into the ring, see if you can best Mordechai.” 

“On his own turf? That would be awfully rude,” Barnabas demurs, and Robert laughs. 

“Heaven forfend you be accused of rudeness,” he says fondly, and Barnabas smiles into his coffee. Robert eschews much of the debauchery that the rest of them so enjoy. Not _entirely_ \- he has been known to attend one gathering or another, from time to time, and Barnabas knows that Jonah visits his townhouse now and again and does not leave until the morning - but he seems to think them all rather strange in their habits. Curious, given that he was the one to draw them all together. 

But - that was then, wasn’t it. Now the one that draws them close is Jonah. 

Jonah is saying something, leaning forwards to slide the tip of his foil down the length of Mordechai’s and up again, testing his grip; Barnabas can hear Mordechai’s low, rumbling laugh, but he makes no response, just shifts his weight to engage on the other side of Jonah’s foil, driving him back again with another phase, the sharp sound of the foils echoing in the stillness of the morning. 

“He’s careful with his energies, Mordechai,” Robert observes quietly. “Look - you can see he’s making Jonah work for this, tiring him out.” Just as Smirke says, Barnabas can see that Mordechai is moving far less than Jonah. He’s on the defensive, more or less, but none of Jonah’s feints drive him towards motion, even the quick surge of a _balestra_ making him do little more than lean back, bringing his foil swiftly upwards against Jonah’s until they’re locked in a grip. Jonah’s arm is shaking and Mordechai leans in, forwards and forwards still, until their faces are nearly touching, tilts his face towards Jonah’s ear - presumably to say something - and then gives a little shove of his wrist that sends Jonah stumbling backwards. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jonathan murmurs, cleaning his knife again so he can start coring and slicing his apple, rapping Barnabas’ knuckles gently with the flat of the blade when he reaches in to try and steal a slice. “You know how determined Jonah is.” 

“Oh, determined, yes,” Robert sighs. “Very much so. But rash.” 

“Quite the little spitfire,” Emiliano agrees cheerfully, eyes skimming over his page and then back to the lawn, watching the next flurry of blows. It’s sharper, this time, Jonah’s eyes narrowed with concentration as he works Mordechai back, feints for the left and lunges for the right, Mordechai forced to twist to parry properly. Jonah has an advantage, there, left-handed as he is. Mordechai isn’t laughing anymore, neither of them are, both of them quite intent on their prize, and Barnabas can scarcely take his eyes off them. 

“You’d think he’d go for the legs,” Emiliano adds a moment later and Jonathan snorts, shaking his head. 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” 

“Nonsense. There’s not a man in London that may dictate how I speak, I’ll certainly not take it from young Jonah. Besides, it’s self-evident, look at them - Jonah’s barely up to his chest.”

“Neither are you,” Robert laughs and Emiliano shrugs, conceding the point, shading lightly with his pencil as Jonah and Mordechai continue their little bout. They’re faster, now, all but dancing as Jonah seeks a gap in Mordechai’s defences and then - lightning-fast, Mordechai moves like an adder, his foil slipping through Jonah’s parry like mist to tap gently against his chest.

“A hit!” Emiliano cheers from the terrace and Jonathan laughs. 

“A very palpable hit,” he agrees softly. Barnabas tilts his head, considering, tapping his fingers gently against the table. 

“Double or nothing, gentlemen?” 

“Ah! Off to take on our gracious host?” Robert asks, eyes glinting, and Barnabas just shrugs, saunters across the lawn towards them both. 

“Well-fought,” he greets and Jonah rolls his eyes, tapping his foil gently against the turf with an irritable look. 

“I suppose so. I’m out of practice.” 

“Excuses, excuses,” Mordechai sighs, and Barnabas sees Jonah’s jaw tighten, lips flattening into a line. He smooths his hand gently between his shoulderblades, leaning into his side a little to try and soothe some of his injured pride. 

“I don’t suppose you’d be up for another bout, Mordechai?”

“With you?” Mordechai looks surprised, tracing his fingertips around the coquille of his foil and then shrugging. “If you like. Recouping your losses, are you?” 

“Just enjoying the sport. Jonah, might I trouble you-”

“Yes, yes.” Jonah gives Mordechai a long look before passing his foil to Barnabas, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Win for me, won’t you?” 

He doesn’t, though he puts up a valiant effort. But with the echo of Jonah’s lips against his, it’s hard to feel like too much of a loser, even with his pockets conspicuously lighter. No matter. Money is just that, after all, just _money_ \- Barnabas has never had to try hard to come by it in the past, and doesn’t expect that to change, even with funds flowing out to Jonah and his Institute by the month. 

“A serviceable attempt,” Mordechai concludes when Barnabas has conceded the hit, watching him with mild amusement in those icy eyes of his. “We ought to have settled stakes.” 

“Oh, there were certainly those. I’m a poorer man than when I woke this morning,” Barnabas laughs breathlessly, hands on his knees. He’s fit enough, but Mordechai has driven him backwards and forwards across the lawn too fast for him not to be a little out of puff. A cat playing with his food. He seems curiously unruffled, barely a flush in his pale cheeks, and Barnabas chances a grin as he looks up at him. 

It’s always hard to tell, with Mordechai, but Barnabas thinks he might be pleased by it. 

“Your stakes with them, perhaps,” Mordechai nods towards the terrace where Jonah is now leaning over Emiliano’s sketchbook, making some comment or other that has Emiliano laughing. He draws too, Jonah, Barnabas has seen fragments of drawings, tiny and detailed, sketched in a mere moment and just as soon discarded. “Not with me.” 

“What would you have of me, then?” Barnabas asks after a moment, eyes still on Jonah. Mordechai hums, settles his hand against Barnabas’ shoulder as he heads past him, back towards the house. 

“You shall pay me, Mr Bennett. In kind.” 

* * * 

He hears that phrase a lot from Mordechai upon the loss of a bet. Payment in kind means a night spent on his knees, sometimes, set to the use of their little company, Mordechai holding his chin between his finger and thumb and stretching his jaw wide around his cock, keeping him there while he drinks brandy and talks politics. It ought to be humiliating. It isn’t. Not always. And even when it is, that isn’t always necessarily bad. 

The fact is, it’s an evening spent being part of the company without having to worry about the intricacies of socialisation. And a welcome reprieve for Jonah, no doubt; on those occasions he is more tender with him, draws him closer and strokes his hair, lifts his hands to press kisses to his fingertips. Barnabas thinks he would weather any storm, bear any hardship for the gift of Jonah’s smile, and a night stretched around Mordechai’s length is no great hardship, really.

Sometimes, payment in kind is stranger work. Mordechai sends him as an emissary, a few times - to collect and deliver letters, to stand at a social function in a pale grey frock-coat, to act as representative or messenger or ambassador. Mordechai never tells him why, and Barnabas is never quite bold enough to risk asking. The first time he calls by Jonah’s house in that coat, not having had the inclination to change after playing messenger-boy again, Jonah gives him a strange, startled look and runs his fingertips gently down the lapels. 

“It fits you well,” he says softly, not looking in the least bit pleased about it, and Barnabas shrugs. 

“I suppose it does. Mordechai must have a servant of around my frame, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Jonah mutters, turns abruptly on his heel and heads for the stairs. “Take it off, in any case,” he calls over his shoulder. 

* * * 

When Jonah is in Edinburgh, Mordechai finds ways in which to occupy Barnabas’ time. When Jonah is in London he is more reticent with his requests, hangs back and allows Jonah to monopolise Barnabas’ attentions. It’s for the best - Jonah seems wary of seeing the two of them together, and Barnabs can’t quite fathom _why_. Jonah pulls him to parties, introduces him to new people, makes much of complimenting Barnabas’ wit and his standing. 

It’s sweet of him. Of course it is. And Barnabas plays the part of a society gentleman adequately enough - he can be charming and sociable when he has to be. But none of the new friends Jonah presses upon him last beyond a night or two of conversation. He prefers a close circle, where possible. A closed circle. 

Mordechai seems to understand that. When Barnabas is invited into his house it is always alone. At first it is to stand waiting while Mordechai gathers whatever letter it is he wants delivered, whatever conversation he wants Barnabas to have. Barnabas stands in Mordechai’s study and waits, silent and still, because whenever he shifts his weight or opens his mouth he gets a heavy, flat look from those pale eyes that locks his knees rigid again. But, slowly, the visits become social calls. 

Barnabas sits in Mordechai’s study and watches him write his letters, curls his legs beneath him in the armchair and feels the anticipation of waiting for _something_ slip away, draining out of him, until he is just breathing in the thick, heavy silence, feeling it like a solid weight in his lungs preventing further speech. Once he falls asleep there, cradled in the grip of absolute quiet, and wakes alone in Mordechai’s bed.

Mordechai rarely touches him, on visits like these, unless Barnabas has lost a particular bet that demands some form of recompense, his _payment in kind_. On one occasion he has him kneel naked in the centre of the study, eyes covered by a blindfold. Barnabas feels the heavy weight of his gaze on him as he wraps his fingers around himself, skin flushing with warmth, perforating the silence with those gasps and moans he cannot hold back. Mordechai doesn’t say a word, and though Barnabas knows he is there it is easy to forget it with his eyes covered, to feel entirely debased and alone, his word limited to the hard wood against his knees, the breeze against the back of his neck, his own fingers and the hot coil of arousal. 

It does not escape Barnabas’ notice that he is often invited to Mordechai’s house on the nights of large parties, dragged from the glittering circle of society into the stillness of his office. It’s a curious quirk, but Barnabas can’t say he minds it much. He is more comfortable in sparse company, and he always leaves Mordechai’s feeling quite calm, quite content to return home and leave his correspondence for another night, sleeping peacefully in the empty expanse of his bed.

* * * 

December, 1821

“Has the cold finally chased you down from the Highlands?” Emiliano cries delightedly when Jonah steps into Robert’s dining room, rising from his chair to take his hand and pull him closer, pressing an extravagant kiss to each of his cheeks. 

“Hardly the _Highlands_ , Emiliano, just Edinburgh,” Jonah huffs, but he doesn’t seem overly displeased by the gesture, bears Robert’s hug stoically, clasps Jonathan’s hand between his, meets Mordechai’s eyes in time to catch the raising of a glass in his direction, and then slips an arm around Barnabas’ waist to press a kiss to his lips. 

“How is your Institute?” Barnabas asks softly, pleased beyond measure to have Jonah back with them - back _home_ \- and Jonah rolls his eyes. 

“ _Cold,_ mainly. But running well enough. It ought to cope with a lighter touch from here on in, I think, now that things have been set properly into motion. I’ll be in London a little more next year.” 

“I should hope so. It’s not the same without you,” Barnabas sighs, and Emiliano snorts. 

“It’s quieter, for a start.” 

“Ah, but far less entertaining,” Jonah replies easily. “Now, you must - ah, thank you - you must tell me all I’ve missed.” He accepts the drink that Barnabas presses into his hand and starts quizzing Robert on the completion of Millbank. It’s all that Barnabas has heard about for the last month, at least, and apparently the others agree - Jonathan is too polite to eschew the conversation and sits listening quietly but Emiliano and Mordechai rise to escape off to the little balcony off Robert’s dining room, standing out there while Mordechai lights his pipe.

It’s _freezing_ \- too dry for snow, but certainly cold enough for it, and Barnabas watches them curiously, wondering how they can bear it so stoically. Mordechai, at least, is large enough to be able to shake off the cold if need be, but Emiliano is whip-thin and wiry, and yet he seems no more uncomfortable out there in the wind than he’d be on a sunny May morning. If Barnabas listens he can hear snatches of conversation, just snippets, disappearing into the air with the smoke from Mordechai's pipe.

“-back, the less chance you have to-”

-your concern, Emiliano, is it?”

“-eye on things, you’d be shocked if I didn’t-”

“-enough alone, and I’ll do the same.”

If he ventures closer to the window he’ll be caught eavesdropping and for all that Barnabas is curious - he is _always_ curious when Mordechai joins a conversation, when he can be tempted into more than traded barbs and filthy comments - he is unwilling to risk being caught. Instead he turns his attention back to Jonah, watches the way Jonathan’s fingers curl against Jonah’s wrist, the colour returning to Jonah’s lips now that he’s out of the cold. He has more important things to worry about than whatever Emiliano and Mordechai might be bickering about. 

As it happens, he gets his chance to overhear them sooner than he’d have imagined. It’s a few hours later and Barnabas is stretched out catlike by the fire, warmth casting a golden glow onto his naked skin, his head against Jonah’s chest and their fingers laced together. He feels warm and sore and satisfied. He knows that his cheek is resting over a bruise inflicted by Jonathan’s teeth, and he’s lulled by the crackle of the wood, by the soft sound of Jonathan’s snores where he’s asleep on the nearby sofa, by Jonah’s sleeping breaths against his hair. 

“Look at them,” Emiliano says softly, and Barnabas keeps his eyes closed as he hears the clink of a decanter, the sound of footsteps. “At least Robert had the good sense to retire to bed. They’ll all be regretting this in the morning when they’re cold and sore.” 

“They’ll be sore either way,” Mordechai rumbles. Barnabas can hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts in the armchair and keeps his own breathing steady, listens to Emiliano walk across the room to do what sounds like perching himself on the arm of Mordechai’s chair, comfortable, familiar. It strikes Barnabas that he hasn’t seen them get that close to one another before.

“So. You’ve set your sights on him, then?” Emiliano asks, and there’s a beat of silence, a sigh dragged from Mordechai, the sound of a glass being set down.

“He’s a lonely sort.” 

“He doesn’t look all that lonely to me.” 

“You can take my word for it, then, and stay out of it.” 

“Oh, you can rely on me, Mordechai,” Emiliano laughs softly, “would I _ever_ interfere with your work?” 

“You’ve been taking an interest.”

“In _him_? Hardly. None of this is any skin off _my_ nose. I just think he’s already too caught up to become one of your lot.” Barnabas can hear the smile in Emiliano’s voice, hear the steel in Mordechai’s. 

“We’ll see.” 

Mystifying. Barnabas cracks his eyes open just enough to see Emiliano staring down at him, to catch the wink he gives him, the flash of mischief in his eyes before he turns his attention back to Mordechai and Barnabas squeezes his eyes back shut. “Are you staying?” 

“Tonight? No.” 

“Well. I’ll bid you _adieu_ , then.” 

With his eyes closed, Barnabas can’t see what transpires - he hears a rustle of fabric, a sigh that could have come from either of them, shivers with a sudden rush of cold and the click of the balcony door - and then, silence. When he opens his eyes a few minutes later the room is empty, just the three of them left together. Barnabas trails his eyes over Jonathan’s face, open and unguarded in sleep where he is always so carefully in control of himself, and reaches out to catch his hand where it’s hanging from the sofa. Just a brush of their fingers, the gentlest of holds, as Barnabas lays his head over Jonah’s heartbeat and drifts back off to sleep. 

* * * 

August, 1822

Jonah’s Institute is up and running, and with it comes the requirement for staff, for supplies, for ad-hoc costs that come with chasing down details about some of the esoteric cases that come to Jonah’s door. Barnabas signs the cheques and provides what assistance he can, and the radiant smiles that Jonah gives him are payment enough. He is working hard, up at all hours, and truth be told Barnabas rather fears for his health, but he is also happier than Barnabas has ever seen him, so who is he to put an end to that? 

Even if his accountant - an old friend of his father’s - has started giving him rather grave looks, has started making oblique suggestions about cutting down extraneous expenses and reducing his philanthropic endeavours. Even then. 

It’s a matter of prioritisation. Barnabas forgoes a new opera cloak because he never much liked the opera anyway, and his old one will suit. He neglects to keep his decanters full, and it hardly matters, because they gather most often at Robert’s house, or Jonah’s, and so there are few people to notice it. He makes the necessary sacrifices because he would rather go threadbare and poor than risk seeing any disappointment in Jonah’s eyes. 

It takes until the summer for the situation to become untenable. It’s the end of the Season, and they’ve gathered at Mordechai’s estate for shooting and walking and riding. Barnabas has a letter from his accountant detailing the state of his affairs and the outlook is poor indeed. 

The week at Mordechai’s is an escape. No money to be spent, relying on the hospitality of their gracious host. Barnabas has moments - several moments - where he considers confiding in Jonah. But Jonah speaks so excitedly about all that his Institute is doing, and Barnabas cannot bear to let him down in such a fashion. 

Instead, he finds Mordechai on the morning of their departure, catches him by the arm and ignores the curious look Jonathan gives him as he motions him over to another room, a little privacy. 

“-just for a year, I should think, I’ll have my affairs in order by then.” 

“I didn’t think you were given to profligacy.” Mordechai doesn’t seem unhappy with the proposition - more amused than anything else. 

“I-” Barnabas pauses, looking away, brow wrinkling as he tries to find a way in which to describe his situation without laying the blame at Jonah’s door. It’s hardly his fault. “I have obligations I must fulfil. I would appreciate your understanding and your discretion in this matter.” 

Mordechai watches him for a long while, and in the pause that stretches out Barnabas finds himself considering what it would be to neglect all responsibilities, all the roles that society foists upon him, to stay here in the quiet and tend only to his own house. He squares his shoulders and meets Mordechai’s eyes, and finally Mordechai nods, expression implacable. 

“Of course, if you wish it. I’ll make the arrangements.” 

Barnabas has the feeling he’s disappointed him, somehow. Nonetheless, Mordechai says nothing more about it. By the time the week is out, he has his money, and Jonah has his funding. 

* * * 

March, 1823

“You’re making quite a name for yourself, angel,” Barnabas says softly. It’s just the two of them here, Jonah curled in his sheets with his head against his chest. Whilst he is used to seeing Jonah in the arms of others - happy to see it, more often than not - Barnabas has to admit a strange and covetous delight in these moments of privacy. 

Jonah trails his fingertips over Barnabas’ chest, placing them between his ribs to draw long lines, little scrapes of his nails leaving the skin white, then red. “You’re not,” he says eventually. “It’s been months since I last heard your name outside of our circle. You mustn’t allow yourself to slip into anonymity, Barnabas, society-”

“Society is _unbearable_ , Jonah. Why shouldn’t I content myself with the true friends I have made rather than the platitudes and performance of people I don’t care to know?” 

“Because it’s to those _platitudes_ that you owe the maintenance of your position,” Jonah snaps, Barnabas blinking at the sharpness of his tone. Jonah sits up and Barnabas frowns, watching him cross the room, pale skin glowing in the moonlight shading through the window. “You cannot place yourself in anyone’s pocket. My friendship, _anyone’s_ , you cannot rely solely upon any of one of us.”

“Can’t I?” Barnabas asks, wounded, marking the agitation in Jonah’s movements as he paces to the washbasin in the corner of the room and splashes cold water onto his face. 

“No, you cannot,” Jonah replies firmly, eyes glinting in the half-light, a waterdrop caught in his hair like a pearl. Barnabas looks away, hurt, and hears Jonah’s terse sigh, his footsteps against the floor, feels the dip of the mattress as Jonah gets back into bed. “ _Barnabas_. You are slipping entirely from the eyes of the world.” 

“Well, and what of it? I have you. I have Jonathan, and Robert, and Mordechai-”

“ _Mordechai_ ,” Jonah hisses, hands tightening in the sheets, “is not someone in whom you ought to be placing your faith.” 

“Oh - come now, Jonah,” Barnabas laughs, outright shocked by the sentiment, “I thought you were fond of him.” 

“What I feel for him doesn’t matter. You ought not to trust him as much as you do.” 

“I-” Barnabas stops, breaks himself off, tries to marry Jonah’s obvious affection for Mordechai with this sudden outburst. “Surely you’re not jealous-” he tries a moment later, and Jonah gives him a look of such cold fury that the rest of his words die in his throat. 

“Don’t be foolish,” Jonah replies, each syllable clipped and icy, and goes to retrieve his clothes. 

“Oh, _Jonah_ -”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Jonah all but snarls. “What you do with Mordechai is of no concern of mine, Barnabas, and I don’t care to know about it, but he is not - he is dangerous. To you, especially, and I won’t see you hurt through your own damnable naivety.” 

“Dangerous,” Barnabas repeats, staring down at his hands. He has heard the rumours, yes, of those that fall foul of Mordechai’s generosity; some gone quiet and absent from society, some moving from the country, some imprisoned under strange circumstances or just disappearing altogether. It is the first time he’s heard Jonah acknowledge such rumours. 

“You must promise me,” Jonah sighs, winding strips of linen around his chest before he puts on his shirt, “Barnabas, you must _promise_ me that you will be careful.” 

“Jonah-”

 _“_ Promise me.” 

It seems an absurd request. Yes, Barnabas is aware of the rumours, and it would be an unwise man who wasn’t at least a little intimidated by Mordechai, but he can’t fathom circumstances under which Mordechai would do anything so bold to him. Not given his friendship with Jonah. 

“I promise,” he says softly, reaching out to Jonah in supplication. “I promise.” 

Jonah doesn’t seem convinced. And the next time they see Mordechai Barnabas feels his eyes on them each time they talk, pretends that he doesn’t see the slow satisfaction in Mordechai’s smile. 

* * * 

June, 1823

Mordechai’s right, of course, that he’s not given to profligacy. But even as he withdraws from society there are still expenses that must be paid. Barnabas tries not to think of it. Some things are best not thought about. 

Mordechai is softer with him, these days. Not quite _tender_ , but not half as rough as he is prone to be with some of the others. Beneath his implacable facade there is dry wit and a sharp mind and Barnabas is startled to find himself growing fond of him, little by little, to find himself looking forward to those quiet nights of solitude within the belly of Mordechai’s house. 

He takes a weekend to visit Moorland House and walks alone through the rolling fields, sits by the lake with a book and returns back that evening feeling content and calm. It’s a calmness that persists even when Mordechai pins his arms over his head and bends him over his desk, silent and uncompromising. 

Barnabas has grown more practiced at staying mute throughout these encounters, even as Mordechai works him over through one orgasm, and then another, and then another. He bites his lip until it bleeds and lets himself sink into the quiet. 

In the morning, Mordechai remarks that Jonathan and Robert and Emiliano are going to be gathering at the theatre that night, wonders if Barnabas will attend. Barnabas opens his mouth and then closes it again, stares into his coffee and remembers Emiliano’s wicked grin, Robert’s steadfast good-humour, his fingers curled in Jonathan’s. 

“Not this time,” he says finally. 

Mordechai doesn’t smile, doesn’t show any sign of approval. But that night he lays Barnabas out on his bed - the first time he’s been afforded such a privilege - and denies him nothing. His lips are cool when he kisses him, smoky with whiskey and Barnabas shivers with the chill even as he reaches out for more. 

* * * 

September, 1823

Barnabas,

I should be glad of your company tonight, if you have the time to spare me. I’m sure Jonah will forgive you your absence at his own gathering; there will be plenty more time for that, and I have a matter that would benefit from your attention and your assistance. If he quibbles, you might remind him that you’ve bet away your time quite assiduously, and I’ve a few more evenings left to make use of. Of all people, Jonah appreciates the sportsmanship of a wager.

I’m sure I need hardly remind you that a year has passed since we made our arrangement, which is now due for repayment. I’d be obliged to be reimbursed at your earliest convenience. We can discuss the rest of it tonight. 

Yours,

Mordechai

* * * 

November, 1823

“You’ve been avoiding him.” 

Barnabas looks up sharply from his position on Robert’s balcony, hunched against the cold in his coat. Last year’s coat. He’s fortunate that the fashions have not changed quite so much in a year as to make it unwearable, but he can feel Jonathan’s keen eyes on it regardless taking in the worn fabric at the elbows, the give in the seams where he’s lost a little weight. 

“Who?” he asks, feigning ignorance, and Jonathan lifts his eyes to the sky with an exasperated expression. 

“Well, _everyone_. But lately, Mordechai.” 

Barnabas’ shoulders stiffen and he glances back towards the dining room despite himself to where Mordechai is in conversation with Robert, Emiliano playing chess with Jonah and apparently doing his utmost to distract him with anecdotes. 

“I’m sure I don’t know-”

“No, don’t do that,” Jonathan sighs, joining him on the balcony and closing the door behind him, hands folded against the stone balustrade. “You owe me no explanations, but please don’t insult my intelligence.” 

Barnabas nods, chest tight as he fixes his gaze back on the horizon, the orange gleam of lamps lighting the dark strip of the river. “Forgive me,” he says quietly, and hears shifting fabric as Jonathan shrugs. “I don’t mean to insult you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Jonathan says it like it’s self-evident, and Barnabas is sure that he doesn’t deserve such faith. He has been absent, Jonathan is right, has made himself distant from nearly everyone bar Jonah. Even with Jonah he has not quite been himself. “What’s wrong, Barnabas?” 

Barnabas swallows thickly, staring at the mist coiling down the streets, frigid and chilling, dampening the sound of hooves as hansom cabs track between the houses. If he explains himself then the matter may well be resolved. Jonah might even resolve it himself. 

The problem, really, is that he is feeling rather hollow, these days. He feels two steps outside of himself, and the calm he feels in Jonah’s arms, in Mordechai’s house, lasts for less and less long each time. He is numb to his very bone, made brittle with a sorrow he is quite unable to articulate, and if Jonah has to look at him with resentment or disappointment or anger then Barnabas thinks the pain might just snap him entirely. 

Jonathan’s hand is warm on his - too warm, almost - and Barnabas flinches away from the touch before he can help himself, feels Jonathan’s hesitation before he reaches out again - slowly, deliberately - and curls his fingers around his wrist. 

“Whatever it is, you needn’t suffer through it alone. If I can help in any way, I will, and I know the same is true of the others. We’re very fond of you.” 

Barnabas feels his lips twitching into a smile with no warmth behind it. He isn’t so sure he believes that. They are fond of the man they think him to be - bright, foolish, affectionate Barnabas - and know nothing of the longing for quiet, for silence, the fear that prickles under his scalp. But something in him wants to reach out, regardless, to clutch at friendship and warmth that he in no way deserves. 

“I’m glad of your friendship,” he mumbles eventually, feeling his own fears jagged and sharp behind his eyes, making them sting and burn. “I- I am grateful for it.” 

“And I, yours.” 

Jonathan stays with him out in the cold a while longer, and the pins and needles of his fingers against his wrist linger long after he’s gone, strange lines of warmth against his chilled skin. Mordechai passes his fingers over those patches later - incidentally, surely accidentally - and the feeling fades back into numbness soon enough. 

* * * 

February, 1824

Since that first letter, Mordechai hasn’t pressed the issue. He hasn’t intimidated or cajoled Barnabas, nor queried why he has yet to be repaid, and yet Barnabas cannot stop the creeping feeling of dread that keeps him awake at night. Of all the times to develop a guilty conscience this, surely, must be the most inconvenient. 

He would pay Mordechai, if he could, but the fact is he cannot. Thinking of it too long makes him anxious and he has tried to put it out of his mind, telling himself that perhaps Mordechai has been benevolent enough to forget the matter entirely. 

He hasn’t much hope of that. Mordechai says little, but he remembers everything. 

It’s the early hours of the morning, and Barnabas has left Jonah asleep in bed to go to his study, pen hovering over the page as he tries to think of the right words to articulate to Mordechai - well, anything. An apology, a plea for clemency, anything that might soothe the fear clawing at his throat. He doesn’t even know what it is that he is so afraid of - hardly thinks it likely that Mordechai will send him off to debtor’s gaol - but fear has crept like vines into each area of his life. 

Since his conversation with Jonathan he hasn’t seen much of the others. Emiliano met his eyes with a strange, knowing look when last they spoke, none of his normal mischief, and Robert just seemed baffled by his sudden reclusiveness. And Jonah-

Barnabas sighs, head in his hands, setting his pen to the side and trying to calm his breathing. What is there to be said? He owes Mordechai a debt and there is little doubt that payment will be collected - and Jonah’s Institute is due another round of funds. He feels quite trapped by his own foolishness and can’t see a way out that doesn’t involve diminishing Jonah’s opinion of him, the only treasure that yet remains in his life. 

It pains Barnabas to hide things from Jonah. Perhaps it’s because he does it so little that Jonah doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. After all, Barnabas has been avoiding the others but he’s been as attentive as ever to Jonah, there is no _reason_ for him to suspect, bar the dark shadows under his eyes, and those are easily explained away by a bout of insomnia. If Robert or Jonathan have mentioned anything to Jonah about his strange behaviour, Jonah hasn’t seen fit to bring it up with him. 

No, this is a problem he has got himself into alone, and it is one he must deal with alone. 

Barnabas returns to bed an hour later, his letter unwritten. 

* * * 

April, 1824

One can’t put off the inevitable. 

Mordechai finds him in the garden of the house in which Emiliano is staying, for now, and sets a hand at the small of his back, greeting him with just a few soft words. Perhaps it’s the softness that does it. After months of silence, Barnabas would have preferred fury or reproach, but the gentle reminder is almost more than he can bear. Over a year of guilt and fear explodes out of him in a rush and before he can snatch them back from the air those words are hanging between them - a stark refusal, an invitation to _bring it before the courts_ , a peal of thin, strained laughter that tastes bitter at the back of his tongue. 

Mordechai says nothing. 

The silence is solid and leaden between them, Barnabas’ shoulders heaving like he’s been running. When Mordechai lifts his hand, his palm is cool against his cheek, and his lips are marble-cold against his forehead. 

“You shall pay me, Mr Bennett. In kind.” 

* * * 

In this strange new world in which he finds himself, Barnabas has nothing but time on his hands. He doesn’t hunger, nor does he thirst. He needs no sleep. He is cold, but doesn’t shiver. He wanders through empty streets and quiet houses and feels terror clawing at his throat. 

It takes a few days (he thinks - there is no day, here, no night) to realise that this world is not entirely static. There is blossom on the trees - it falls, the petals gathering on the streets. Puddles appear on the street and dry again. Jonah’s bookmark moves through the book on his bedside table. Barnabas fights through his terror to write Jonah a letter and waits anxiously in his office, waiting for something to happen. 

The letter moves from one side of Jonah’s desk to the other, the seal on it broken. There is a scrap of paper on the desk, addressed to Mordechai, but nothing else is written. Barnabas settles under Jonah’s desk for a few hours and tries to find some rest. 

* * * 

_Mordechai,_

_I know how you loathe time wasting, so I’ll try to be brief. I offer no excuse for my actions or my discourtesy. I think by now you know that I am not in a position to repay you, and I cannot explain that either. I can only beg your forgiveness and hope that any fondness you bear me might induce you towards mercy. Forgive me; we both know that I am much inclined towards foolishness, and this is not the first time my temper will have got the better of me._

_If you bear me any love at all, I beg you, release me from this place. You shall find me less obstinate, I promise you, and-_

And what? That’s the question, isn’t it. _And what_. 

The letter goes undelivered. Barnabas is quite sure it wouldn’t have made a difference, regardless. 

* * * 

It’s the quiet that hurts most. Barnabas finds himself trying to replicate familiar, much-loved sounds - the clink of glasses, the wry chuckle he can coax from Jonathan upon occasion, the strange little tunes that Emiliano whistles. Each one becomes warped and twisted, tinny in his ears, and the silence is like a roar, like a weight on the top of his head, something muffling and awful that he cannot escape. 

He is losing his friends’ faces in his mind’s eye. He visits Emiliano’s house to try and find his sketchbook, any reminder of what they look like, but the pictures are strange sweeps of charcoal and graphite that seem almost to be moving, fluid and angular but with no discernible features. 

Books are no comfort. Loneliness fills him like toothache, gnawing and relentless, and Barnabas curls his arms around his waist to listen to his own harsh breaths rattling through the empty air. 

Once or twice, he thinks he hears a voice - several voices - thinks he might hear laughter or singing, but no matter how far he runs, how fast he chases it, he is forced to conclude that he is quite alone here. Not even Mordechai comes to see him, not even to gloat. 

Jonah has received his letter, Barnabas knows this much. Either he has tried to intercede on his behalf, and failed, or he has failed to intercede at all. Barnabas whiles away a few hours mulling this over, trying to apply cold logic to the swirling morass of fear and grief and guilt gathering like liquid in his lungs. That is what Jonathan would do, is it not - break things down to their constituent parts. 

Why would Jonah leave him here? Perhaps he simply does not know how to retrieve him. Perhaps _Mordechai_ does not know how to retrieve him. Perhaps he is lost entirely, whether anyone intercedes or not. Barnabas finds that to be the most comforting option. Because otherwise - well, otherwise, he has been abandoned. He has been deemed unworthy of being saved. 

Perhaps Jonah is angry that Barnabas did not tell him of the debt at all. He hoards secrets like treasure, and Barnabas can quite see him being stung by this omission, resentful - but so resentful that he would let him die? Well - perhaps. 

Barnabas has spent time in Jonah’s study. He has read the correspondence that passes between Jonah and his Institute, between Jonah and Smirke, the way he talks of the Entities and the Fears as real, tangible things. The more Barnabas reads, the more he thinks he understands where he is, what his fate will be, the more certain he is that Jonah _knows_ where he is. 

If he has been deemed unworthy, he can’t blame Jonah for that. He has always felt unworthy. Jonah is too clever not to have seen through his smiles and attempted charm to the weak and cringing soul beneath, and Barnabas can’t begrudge him his perspicacity. 

He writes Jonathan a letter. He walks once-familiar streets and tries to remember happier times; laughing with Robert at the opera, being lectured by Emiliano in the British Museum on the origins of various artefacts, quiet afternoons with Jonathan in the library. He sits on Jonah’s bed and places his head against the pillow, imagines he can feel the sheets skin-warm where Jonah has lain. 

There is no goodbye. There is no final, defiant scream, no last confrontation, no final moment of begging or sobbing or shouting. Barnabas is hollow to his very core, and curls in Jonah’s bed as if he can hold himself together there, hiding his face in the pillow like a child. The fear makes him tremble, shaking sobs from his lungs, shaking the skin from his bones, dissipating him entirely into the mist. Death, when it comes, is light and unobtrusive, and settles on him as easily as snow. 

* * * 

“I did say he was too caught up,” Emiliano remarks lightly, using a pocket-knife to split an orange into neat segments. 

“You did.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” 

Mordechai is quiet, stirring a teaspoon through his coffee without once clinking the sides, eyes out in the middle distance. 

“One of two things,” he says finally, and Emiliano laughs, delighted. 

“Oh, I _see_. You really thought he might make his decision in there?” 

“He did. After a fashion.” 

“Another Avatar of the Lonely - how _would_ we have managed?” Emiliano shakes his head. “Pity. He was a nice boy.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’m surprised Jonah didn’t step in.” 

“Are you?” 

Emiliano tilts his head, pops a segment of orange into his mouth and then shrugs. “No. I suppose not. He’ll be very cross.” 

Mordechai takes a sip of coffee, not meeting Emiliano’s eyes. “If he’s set on this path, better he learn the necessity of sacrifice now.” 

“Oh, _assuredly_ , Mordechai. How good of you to sacrifice dear Barnabas for the sake of his development. What a benevolent teacher you are,” Emiliano grins. “And with you so fond of him, too.” 

That gets him a long, flat look, and no response. Not that he expected one. It’s an old dance of antagonism between them; for his part, Emiliano is just curious to see the fallout. 

“He died,” Mordechai says after a pause, “in Jonah’s bed.” 

“Young love.” Emiliano bats his eyelashes at Mordechai. “Heartbreaking, really.”

“We can but hope.” 

“Oh, _please_. That’s wishful thinking even for a winsome young optimist like yourself. He’s well out of your hands.” 

Mordechai sips his coffee again, eyes on the mist. “We’ll see. He’ll be in need of funding.” 

**Author's Note:**

> All the love in the world to the Jonah server as per, and particularly Cat who wanted Barnabas in the Lonely. 
> 
> The title is from _Adeline_ by alt-J
> 
> [ SJ made art??? for my fic??? ](https://focsle.tumblr.com/post/619119005740007424) I'm dumbstruck and _beyond_ flattered - it is _gorgeous_.
> 
> [Find me on tumblr and say hi!](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com)


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